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To 3rd, to Central, to parking lot and sidewalk, to Nicollet, these are places where I will never get lost. Downtown habit is a chronic pathway to the day, individuals traveling in every which way. From the Stonearch Bridge to the Grain Belt sign Minneapolis is on the mind. The weather is chilled, same as the attitudes. People standing in line to have a good time, most never move on. Who is wasting time?

Hardly a cold day in the city, hardly a month into autumn; vegetation obviates a blossom, as we gossip of the coming snow and frozen bones-we are set to dress in costume.

Of day, of before dawn, all dryness is gone. Prepared, however, not. Nothing lost.

Memories do no justice to Windchill.

Pavement shines, belts whine, as vehicles drive by.

Aggressive and agitated as the Metro Transit driver guy.

A honk from a passing friend, watch for pedestrians as you flood the skies again.

They are shit for shambles as they amble through the day.

Make way.

Make way, and take a gamble.

Traveling north by cracked roads, noticing small things; a black hat left by the wayside, debris, a soiled glove, trash, broken glass, and traffic lights flashing, dancing on glass. Slipping past. The minutes tick, an attempt to be on time. Time passed.

No morning transaction is complete without me on my feet. No one drinks if I miss the mark, few will get their fill of the bakeries heart. The pay doesn’t matter, it’s the experience before, the journey to work, that makes it worthwhile.

I wish people could see the streets like they are downtown in the early morning twilight. The few, the proud, the individuals that get an unadulterated presence of Downtown pavement. The idea that in a moments notice there will be too many ships afloat on this ocean to see. An impossible feat, but here it is. I wake early by occupation, by habit, by passion, for a payment, a paycheck, yet my payment is allotted before I get to the office. Things to take in, things to think about. Accomplished.

Take to feet, take to bike, take flight. Take to the night. Live in another time, other than as you would have imagined in your life. Maybe things have been misunderstood. Maybe a night owl can be a day laborer, maybe the early bird can sleep late and still keep a worm on it’s plate. On a date, on a ladder, and climbing faster while avoiding disaster. The journey.

There is a world out there, on the opposite side of your schedule. A world you can find, if you only keep difference in mind.

With or without you, this orb spins.

Getting out and about, out of the house, to take it all in.

I am one of the many who traverse Nicollet Mall daily.

***

And they still talk about building a Pipeline over an Aquifer. WTF? I thought they wanted to conserve.

(That’s how we think of the past, in black and white. Romantic delight.)

Yet we read on.

We choose battles.

We choose retreats.

Sometimes while talking in our sleep.

We like it.

We write it.

Sometimes its divided.

The words still exist (with us).

In the mix, tossed up to become lost stuff… Then found.

That’s when poetry comes back around.

The wind blows the leaves every-which-way, the path forward and backward become obstructed and cleared in an instant. The air around has a chill that has been in other lands for many months, touching other faces, other families, with other ideas. Relation is in the season-we feel this way for a reason. Universal community.